Pitchfork Music Festival wraps up with M.I.A. and R.Kelly

Chicago Tribune Columnist greg Kot reviews the final day of Pitchfork Music Festival.

Greg Kot

10:59 p.m. EDT, July 21, 2013

Here's how the final day of the Pitchfork Music Festival went down Sunday in Union Park, with commentary from yours truly (GK) and Bob Gendron (BG):

1:21 p.m.: "Are you all happy to be alive" queries Tree, before taking the crowd to church. The Chicago rapper glows with enthusiasm and positivity. For his hometown set, he's brought a trio of backing vocalists, a drummer, deejay and hypeman. Everyone is dressed in button-down shirts and ties. It's classy, but not overly so, as the formal wear is loose and untucked. Tree's brand of hip-hop--he refers to it as "soul-trap" -- is similarly stylish. Traces of '70s Chicago soul, gospel and funk give cuts such as "Safe to Say" a rare combination of sensuality without being sexual. The 29-year-old, who spent eight years working at a retail store, rhymes with a slow flow that accentuates the moodiness. He cedes brashness and boasts to his better-known contemporaries, but his biographically inspired subject matter -- everyday life, overcoming the odds of a rough neighborhood, transcending disbelievers -- recalls the early fare of another famous Chicago rapper, Kanye West. The genuine optimism is as refreshing as the day's breeze. For now, Tree concentrates on the present and can hardly believe his fortune. "I came from a bad place, I'm in a good place now. They told me I couldn't do it." Not too shabby for an artist who last year, he says, was part of the crowd and a year later is part of the lineup people pay to see. (BG)

1:53 p.m.: Hyperactive Foxygen vocalist Sam France climbs the lighting trellace on the side of the stage. He quickly descends, smacks himself in the head and surfs atop an amplifier before striking drum cymbals with his bare hand. Meanwhile, his band is one song into its performance. Where does Foxygen go from here? Nowhere memorable. Cramming late 60s psychedelic, glam and baroque pop cliches into songs and twisting them with garage-rock edginess and spontaneous combustion, the throwback collective resembles a nightmare parody of the Doors on their worst night. Clad in thin paisley trousers, the wiry France embraces the role of Jim Morrison, replicating many of the latter's juvenile look-at-me antics and inane banter. He strives to convey elements of weirdness and humor, the equivalent of the kid in class that will stop at nothing to get attention and draw laughs. Yet France's cartoonish behavior is about as authentic as Foxygen's originality. It may be designed to conjure bipolar disorder or a vicious acid trip, but the acting is transparent. At its best, the California group qualifies as carnival-level entertainment--something meant to distract the audience from tedium until the main act goes on. Mostly, however, it is pathetic farce, a band designed to incite reactions no matter how idiotic the cost. (BG)

2:02 p.m.: Autre Ne Veut wins the prize for weirdest stage props Sunday at Union Park with four white-gloved, black-aproned roadies holding up two large picture frames. What does it mean? At one point, singer Arthur Ashin stands behind one of the frames -- a self-portrait, perhaps? If so, it's a one-dimensional one. The singer wrings out his angst, lust and guilt in a series of songs that pushed his voice to the top of his range and beyond. The occasional hook, usually sung by a female vocalist, provides temporary relief. (GK)

2:40 p.m.: Atlanta MC Killer Mike puts his stamp on the festival as he gets choked up talking about hip-hop as a lifeline deeper than any political party or religious institution. He threads stories about his life through the songs, displaying a rare vision that looks beyond the task at hand -- entertaining a crowd of thousands in a park -- to the streets beyond it. With a megaphone voice matched by his robust personality, Killer Mike delivers songs brimming with harsh life lessons and finds redemption through selflessness. "This is what church is supposed to look like," he says. Church with one microphone and a set of turntables, a booming beat and a bigger voice. (GK)

2:57 p.m.: The artist formerly known as Lightspeed Champion channels the effortless flair and pop of the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Known As Prince. Who knew producer/remixer/singer/songwriter Devonte Haynes had such a sweet, smooth falsetto hidden beneath his scenester persona? Performing as Blood Orange, Haynes targets the sort of bedroom-tailored romantic fare made for lovers and singles trying to convince partners to give into intimate desires. His six-piece band involves a saxophonist and backing vocalist, yet lean, minimalist arrangements are the rule. No instrument dominates; everything exists to serve his tender, breathy voice and devotional lust. Haynes picks up a guitar in mid-song, fires off a weightless, slithery solo and puts it aside. Hooking up with the opposite sex is as easy as this, he suggests, and before he's through, he shows off with a few finger-tapped fills Eddie Van Halen would appreciate. He's also in a generous mood, covering a portion of Sky Ferreira's "Everything Is Embarrassing" before tipping the crowd to watch her on the same stage later in the afternoon. Look out, R. Kelly. Another ladies' man is in the house. (BG)

3:34 p.m.: After a brief set of his own material with a three-piece band, El-P brings out Killer Mike to the guitar chords of George Thorogood's "Bad to the Bone." The duo tag-teams verses from their recent "Run the Jewels" collaboration, an exercise in blowing off steam from two MCs usually associated with hard-edged commentary. This, in contrast, is socially unconscious battle rap at its finest, where swagger is measured by the outrageousness of the stories and the wallop behind the putdowns. It's a throwback to the early days of hip-hop, and it revs up an audience still buzzing from Killer Mike's solo set an hour earlier. (GK)

4:01 p.m.: Katie Crutchfield sings like a woman whose inner soul got singed by heartbreak more than once in her young life. The Waxahatchee leader's songs directly speak to the lies, deception, disappointments and complications associated with relationships that, inevitably, don't end well. Crutchfield doesn't hide behind any veneer. She converts trauma and torment into taunts, and while her naked D.I.Y. pop-rock confessions ooze emotional wounds, the singer isn't someone you'd want to cross. A bevy of piercingly introspective lines linger due to their knife-to-the-gut implication and no-muss frankness. "We won't ever speak again"; "And when I look into your colored eyes I see a breach that makes me cry"; "You'll beg for my empathy." Supported by just a bassist and drummer, Crutchfield attempts nothing new on an established musical form. And while her muted fuzz guitar melodies and "ooh ooh" refrains point to satisfaction and security, her patient waltzes and loping, skeletal tales paint a picture of a promising artist that worries about everything from regret to marriage, and who isn't afraid to wear such adult issues like the tattoos on her arm. (BG)

4:40 p.m.: Yo La Tengo is quietly on a mission to make Low sound like Slayer in comparison. Then the New Jersey trio shifts gears with some feedback from Ira Kaplan's guitar. A brisk and welcome run through the Beach Boys' "Little Honda" is soon followed by an exercise in drone and dissonance, with Kaplan hunched over his foot pedals, conjuring shrieks and howls. From the anti-Slayer to Slayer in the space of 40 minutes -- that's called versatility. (GK)

5:01 p.m.: Someone get Sky Ferreira a tissue. The 21-year-old vocalist is crying in the midst of the dreary ballad "Ghost." She's overwhelmed by the number of fans in the crowd and admits she just remembered what her songs are about. By no stretch is the former teen-pop crooner ready for prime time. Spontaneous or not, the sobbing pays dividends. Her tears, wiped away for visual effect, are well-received by the overflow crowd. Suddenly, she's smiling, and admitting how embarrassed she feels, saying "like" every three words and revealing herself as a prototypical Valley Girl. Oh, the drama. Ferreira, who also models and acts, doesn't want to be seen as a softie or a princess, however. Her sour facial expressions alternate between that of a little girl whose puppy just died and a miserablist who threatens to stick pins in their arm if they don't get what they want. She wants to convey toughness, loss and agitation but mostly appears pouty and bratty, an actress rehearsing dialogue for a soap opera. Her songs--roughed up ever so slightly with rock gusto--follow suit, with glossy choreography and recycled synthpop grooves. The L.A.-based artist introduces several new tunes, including "You're Not the One," which could've come straight off Cyndi Lauper's blockbuster "She's So Unusual" album released back when Pepsi and Coke still had taste-test wars. What's old is new again, especially if it's from the Me Decade. (BG)

6:07 p.m.: Lil B is doing a stand-up comedy routine masquerading as a hip-hop concert. "I want to thank you all for supporting this cause," he announces. His flow could be charitably described as "fractured," but it hardly matters. His fans drink it all in, the cult of personality bigger than any of his songs -- and this guy has got thousands of them. Without any discernible quality control, his recordings include a few gems and a whole lot of dross. But this performance is less about music than warped charisma, and Lil B has plenty of it. (GK)

6:10 p.m.:Chairlift uses history to its advantage. The Brooklyn duo (augmented with a guitarist) journeys through the 80s in front of a horde of fans that act like they've never heard records by the Cure, Yaz or Depeche Mode. Fittingly, the band breaks into a cover of "I'll Stop the World and Melt With You" as, for all intents and purposes, its entire performance is one big cover song. Chairlift's original homages extend to Enya, the flighty vocalist that twirling singer Caroline Polachek emulates with whippoorwill highs, breathy purrs and an everything-is-beautiful attitude. Adorned in a variation on a green gym suit and waving around ribbons tied to her wrist, Polachek looks set to lead a Jane Fonda workout, circa 1985. Chairlift's light-as-feather synthpop, at home in any day spa, even fancies the xylophone as a lead instrument. Myriad Reagan-era artists have been here before and captured the style more imaginatively. No matter. In an age where context is vastly undervalued, an entire decade is ripe for reproduction. The 1980s' grip on the Blue Stage this afternoon continues. (BG)

7:03 p.m.: Joshua Leary, aka Evian Christ, steadily bobs his head while twisting knobs and manning his mixing boards. The British electronic composer is in a world of his own, either oblivious to or unconcerned with the fact he's playing to the smallest crowd at the Blue Stage since the day's first performance. Leary strings together hip-hop samples, ambient drones, sawed-off beats and the stray gunshot blast. The sonic collages traffic in low-key atmospherics and disorienting waves, with the low end used as a bridge. Such creative pursuits may make for good choices when studying for an exam, flipping through a magazine or prepping dinner for friends. At a festival setting they just seem illustrative of preparing for a nap, alarm included. As if on cue, a hyper-sexual rap narrative and burping pulses function as a wake-up call towards the finish, marred by an equipment failure and incongruous sequencing. (BG)

7:53 p.m.:MIA knows the ingredients to throw a party, Sri Lankan style. Fill the stage with twirling lights; dancers, drummers and backup singers dressed in blinding colors; fill the field with beachballs. Add Bollywood beats, cavernous hip-hop bass and chant style vocals that sound mostly canned. Pump up to woofer-exploding volume levels. And then sit back and watch the audience dance itself silly. The agit-rapper turns Union Park into a giant Southeast Asian disco, then shifts into darker terrain: menacing, buzzing electro beats, sheer cacophony as a form of sonic beatdown. And still the fans dance. (GK)

8:11 p.m.: It isn't too late for Ida No to apply for a job as a professional cheerleader. The Glass Candy vocalist embodies all the requisite traits: Giddiness, athleticism, buoyancy and the willingness to scream on command. Jump rope with the microphone cord while sporting leg-hugging gold pants and braids down to her waist? That can go on her resume, too. For now, she's the overexcitable component of the electronic Portland duo, a mouthpiece whose words largely get swallowed by partner Johnny Jewel's bleeping sequencers, haunted-house orchestrations, squawking mechanizations and disco beats. Perhaps that's why No, who clearly idolized Blondie's Debbie Harry at one point in her life, shrieks so often. She just wants to be heard. Her fallback mechanism would prove obnoxious if not for the Krautrock-inspired grooves carved into the amalgamation of synthesized no-wave and throbbing dance. Designed for the feet and hips, it's swanky enough for fashion runways and sleazy enough for dingy clubs. (BG)

9:05 p.m.: Put the sunglasses back on. It's pitch-black outside, but TNGHT blinds the area with a power-sucking display of strobe and tower illumination that challenges anyone to stare directly at the stage. The Kanye West-vetted duo is almost invisible because of the contrast of bright and dark, and conduct a majority of its electronic wizardry under cover. Clipping beats, distorting time signatures, filtering recognizable noises and manipulating phrases, the pair trades in repetition and delayed impact. While many of TNGHT's contemporaries prefer an overload approach, the Canadian-Scottish team isolates sounds, slurs sequences and emphasizes seismic bass to create spooked soundscapes. Intermittent overlapping of hip-hop rhymes and auto-tuned vocals break up the spareness, and while the group's "Higher Ground" single flies by at a rapid pace, TNGHT is in no hurry to play its hand. The duo does, however, seize the West connection, merging the Chicago rapper's "Blood on the Leaves" with Billie Holiday's "Strange Fruit" and its own "R U Ready," just as West does on his recent record. A prelude to the Perry's Stage at Lollapalooza in less than two weeks is in the books. (BG)

9:40 p.m.: After entering with a robed choir behind him, R. Kelly starts stringing together his hits, medley style. A verse, a chorus, and then on to the next. Songs about "getting freaky in the club," the kitchen, the car, wherever. Kelly was the subject of a years-long investigation over child-pornography charges, but was eventually acquitted in 2008. None of that appears to matter to anyone left in the park tonight, as one of the largest crowds in Pitchfork history flocks to check out the dominant R&B performer of the last two decades. The Union Park crowd reaction isn't quite as over-the-top as that of his typical audience, but the dancing continues to escalate until the set peaks with "When a Woman's Fed Up" and the stepping songs "Happy People" and "Step in the Name of Love," accompanied by white balloons. Kelly saves "I Believe I Can Fly" for the encore, and this time white-dove balloons fill the sky.